


telephone wire

by shuurima



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pre-Relationship, Resurrection, Temporary Character Death, half beta'd, hello i wrote this on a whim at 4AM, its gonna suck for a bit but it has a happy ending, my beta reader went to bed an hour into this so the rest of it is probably a shitshow!, should probably put that tag there, this is based off the song from fun home, this is gonna be multi-chaptered so in case i fucked up the listing- this is not where it ends!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 01:17:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15425823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shuurima/pseuds/shuurima
Summary: When he wakes, it is not in Shady Creek Run, it is not in the brothel they’re holed up in, and it is not in the tiny, bare room he had taken for himself- intentionally shuttered from the traffic of the building, away from strangers and companions alike.





	telephone wire

When he wakes, it is not in the creaky, worn bed he remembers falling into the night prior. 

 

When he wakes, it is not in Shady Creek Run, it is not in the brothel they’re holed up in, and it is not in the tiny, bare room he had taken for himself- intentionally shuttered from the traffic of the building, away from strangers and companions alike.

 

When Caleb wakes, instead of the wooden ceiling of The Landlocked Lady, his eyes meet the wide and nearly endless expanse of the stars- miniscule specks of light in a wash of black and dark blue. His first thought is to note that there are no trees in sight- no forest canopy to block the view, to shrink the presence of the heavens looming and stretching over where the wizard lays flat on his back.  _ In grass _ , he decides without looking; the ground is solid and unyielding under his spine and shoulders, but not particularly uncomfortable.  

 

Second, there is a storm on the way; he can see the clouds in his peripheral vision, fuzzing just along the edge of the horizon, blurring the boundary between land and sky. No sooner does the observation cross his mind than he feels the temperature change in an instant, the cold brushing against him and seeping through his clothes and skin like a slow and torturous chill- but he feels no brisk air across his cheeks. His hair does not stir and whip like it is wont to do, in its current scraggly state. The blades of grass that he now notices beneath his fingertips does not sway even in the slightest. There is only the  **sensation** of cold- no movement.   
  
_ No movement, _ he repeats to himself in his mind, monotone,  as he stares at the stars above him. They do not twinkle. He turns his head towards the clouds, finding his neck to be unusually stiff, even by  _ his _ standards. They are there, in the sky- he sees them clearly. But they do not move, and they do not billow and breathe like the rolling storms he is used to, descending over the plains like a stampede. They simply sit, as if frozen, held back by some immense force of will that, he gathers, must come from something much stronger than himself. 

 

It unsettles him.

 

He turns his gaze back to the stars, preparing to begin cataloguing the constellations that he has known since childhood, if only to gain some small measure of comfort- but pauses when he finds them just as unresponsive. _ It is only a trick of the mind _ , he tells himself.  _ I must have blinked _ . So he makes it a point to not let his eyelids flutter- steeling himself into staring for as long as he can stand it- but there is no twinkling above him, no ebbs of soft light from the spattered sky. It is all consistent, open, unblinking. Lifeless, like a painting, or a sketch. 

_ This is not right. _

 

The chill returns, deeper, more  _ invasive _ this time, and he is no longer sure if it is the sensation of the not-wind once more, or if it is the familiar dread that he finds nestled into the pit of his stomach, often, like a burrowed animal. For the first time since his eyes opened in this wrong,  _ wrong _ place, Caleb suddenly  _ feels _ the rest of his body. It would be hard not to, as a violent and involuntary shudder racks him hard enough to curl his chest in on itself, his knees jerking up against his will and forcing him to roll onto his side. A breath tears violently into his lungs, which he only now feels burning, the organ clawing desperately for oxygen-  _ had he been holding his breath this whole time? He didn’t remember feeling the need to inhale- _

 

Something shifts next to him- he hears the rustle of grass and something like fabric- and he forces an arm towards his coat, fingers searching wildly for the diamond he keeps in one of the pockets-  _ why isn’t he  _ **_wearing_ ** _ his coat, he is  _ **_never_ ** _ not wearing his coat _ \- and comes up with nothing but a tangled mess of copper wire.    
  
_ He is going to die here, wherever he is, because all he has found is a damned metal  _ **_string_ ** _ - _

 

“S’cold, yeah? Here.” 

 

Caleb suddenly realizes how _wrong_ he was to think he felt cold before- it is almost laughable, with the hindsight that he has suddenly been granted, to have thought that was the worst he could feel. The sensation from moments ago feels slight and utterly forgettable compared to what washes over him now, in _waves_ , like being dunked in a frozen lake and held under until the water forces itself into his nose, his mouth, his lungs- until he is devoid of warmth both outside and in. He feels so cold it burns him- _and what a strange notion it is, to be_ _freezing and burning alive at the same time_ \- 

 

Before, he had faced the cold dread of the unknown; of confusion and fear. Now, it is the opposite, and it is somehow  _ more _ terrifying to understand, to know where-  _ when? _ \- he is, as he feels fabric settle over him, a corner of it brushing against his cheekbone on the way, silky and fleeting, leaving an uncomfortable tingle of warmth against his bare skin. 

 

Caleb is only pulled from his paralysis when he feels a sudden spark of pain in his palm- his hand is curled in a tight fist around the ball of wire, the raw edges of the metal pressing deep into the calloused skin there. When he forces his hand open, he sees small, red pinpoints of blood beginning to swell and blossom against the coating of dirt and ink that are covering his hands instead of his bandages-  _ where are they?  When did you take them off? _

 

_ I took them off to dig,  _ his mind supplies, hollowly,  in response, as if someone had really asked him- as if he was not talking to himself, in his mind, while a dead man woke behind him and laid a coat over his  trembling form.

 

‘Y’know, might help if you moved in a bit.” The voice continues from behind him, past his hunched shoulders, quiet and drowsy, with a familiar rumble that makes his heart skyrocket into a panic. 

 

_ It’s warmer that way, and you look like you’re in need of it,  _ his mind, again, supplies to him- seconds before the same sentence, with identical intonation, spills from the man behind him, who is now shifting to prop his head up on an elbow. Caleb knows this without having to turn and look, because he has already seen it happen.    
  
He has already lived this night- this _ last  _ night before everything crumbled and sifted out between his fingers- before what was left of their little group shattered into fragile scraps. 

 

For a moment, he is afraid he **cannot** live it again, that he will not be able to turn and look into the red eyes he knows are trained on his coiled body without breaking completely. How was he to look at them, when the last time he did so, before he had brought his fingers down over them to guide the lids shut, they had been glassy and lifeless? He is already so close to being beyond repair. 

 

But, just like he does when he dreams of flames and fire, of screaming and pleading and burning flesh, Caleb Widogast turns to face what is behind him, like a moth drawn to the candle- to it’s destruction- because he has never been good at listening to his own  _ very sound _ advice.

 

He  _ still  _ does not think he can re-live this conversation, knowing what comes only hours later. But this is a dream- not reality. Maybe he does not have to follow the same path again. He knows he cannot change reality- at least not **yet** , he is not strong enough, but  _ one day he will be _ \- but maybe he can change a conversation, at the very least, in a place like this. Maybe, just for a moment, he can trick himself into forgetting. 

 

He turns, though it takes effort, and meets Mollymauk’s gaze. It is curious, still drowsy with sleep, and momentarily the gleam of red disappears as he blinks, slow and languid. It reminds him vaguely of Frumpkin, and he wishes that he could have that small comfort here with him. But he does not.    
  
“Mollymauk. Why are you- awake.” His voice sounds hoarse even to his own ears, and he can’t help but choke over his words, trying in vain to hide from the looming undertones his mind dredges up.  _ Why are you awake, when you are dead in the ground?  _

 

“I could ask you the same, Mister Caleb.” The words spill from his lips easily, one corner of his mouth twitching up in a lazy smile. “Got a big day ahead of us, you know, we should all be getting our sleep.”

 

It is like a knife in his chest. 

 

Even though he knew, verbatim, what whisper would float to him in the quiet of this night, even though he was expecting it, the  _ knowing _ makes it all the worse.

 

“Ja. I am just-” Caleb struggles to parrot what he had originally said- it is not the same,  _ how can it be the same when he knows what he does _ \- 

 

“Worried? I know. But we’ll get them back. It’ll be fine in the end, I’m fairly sure. And if I’m wrong, well, fuck me, I suppose.” A soft chuckle escapes the tiefling as he rambles off the end of his sentence, and Caleb can feel the rustle of his tail beneath the coat, swishing lazily.    
  
At the time, four days ago, the normalcy of Mollymauk’s flippancy had been calming. Comforting, even. The situation was dire, but Molly had stayed positive and provided them with at least a fragment of what once had been amongst their little group. They would have fallen to pieces without it, he is sure- because they are falling to pieces now in its absence.

 

Now, it just made Caleb’s stomach turn violently, and for a moment he thinks he may be sick, before he chokes it back down. He will not waste this opportunity, even if it is not real. He needs it.    
  
“Stay- stay up with me for a little while, Mollymauk.”   
  
“Sure, if that’s what you want.”

**Author's Note:**

> hey y'all. my name is cir and absolutely under no circumstances did i think my introduction fic for these two would be angst, considering that ive been physically ill over The Incident since it happened, but maybe this is me handling my shit or something. who knows!! wild. 
> 
> anyway, this is kind of a rambling exploration of grief, but with the payoff that, at least here, molly's absence will not be permanent. so its suffering, but like, diet suffering, you know? i also am not super familiar with writing caleb, but i did recognize a lot of myself in the way that he seems to be handling the situation, and so i thought i might take a crack at it. i'm aware i took a lot of liberties, though, and some might find him out of character, which i apologize for;; 
> 
> i can't promise a particularly regular update schedule, although i really only plan for this to have 3 to 4 chapters at most. but i will try my best to update once a week!
> 
> also ive been kinda scared to ask anyone for the widomauk discord because ive been so emotionally compromised but like....i feel a little better...so if someone wants to toss ya girl a line.....i'd appreciate it!
> 
> for those of you not familiar with the song reference, here:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N_US4P9zPQQ  
> (note that i really only used the song for the conceptual image, so not a lot of the specific lyrics match up to the situation!)
> 
> find me on tumblr under the same username! (@shuurima)


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